


Anthologies of Memory

by kiashyel



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:24:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiashyel/pseuds/kiashyel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The room is not large, but there is an immensity to it. It is a cathedral of pain and the air is melancholic, it is thick and pervaded with loss."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anthologies of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the library bottles in "Journey to the Center of the TARDIS" and the Memory Pavilion in Erin Morgenstern's _The Night Circus_ , where a tag reads _"Bedtime Stories, Eventide Rhapsodies, Anthologies of Memory. Please enter cautiously and feel free to open what is closed."_

At the end of a long corridor, he finds it again. He never knows where it will be, only that when he needs it the most, the door appears. A blue wooden door in a wall of silver steel, with a warm golden knob that beckons to him. His hand twitches reflexively as he slowly approaches. The pads of his fingertips rest lightly on the knob as he takes a deep breath, then with a sudden jerk of his wrist he opens the door and slips into the dim room on the other side. 

The room is not large, but there is an immensity to it. It is a cathedral of pain and the air is melancholic, it is thick and pervaded with loss. A single light shines overhead and bone white bookcases run the circumference of the room, partially hidden in the violet shadows. On the shelves are bottles of varying sizes and colors, all sealed with a black rubber stopper.

The Doctor selects one that is close to his left hand, hefts it in his palm, closes his fingers around it. The glass is exquisitely made; delicate but not fragile, it is a deep, almost crimson shade of pink. Staring at it, his reflection is twisted, like looking into a funhouse mirror. He wriggles the stopper free and inhales; the fragrance is intricate and sweet as it invades his nostrils. He smells a bright, friendly bouquet of sunshine and flowers with a vibrant, youthful top note. There is a hint of Earl Grey and the whisper of a breeze rustling through a sun-drenched English garden. Another breath and he smells cold wet sand and the salty tang of crashing waves of tears. 

Replacing the stopper and returning the bottle, the Doctor moves to another corner. He retrieves a new bottle, this one thick and austere, colored like honey dripping from the comb. From this one he breathes in a willful apricot, the heady chaos of spices, and the acerbic aroma of a street fair. A noble cologne of energetic fire, it is warm and earthy, bold and overpowering. Beneath it all, below the subtle hint of forget-me-nots, is an undercurrent of potential and the flavor of indefinite regret.

He spies two bottles side by side, one an ebullient shade of absinthe, the other dark, solid amber. He unstops the green one first and feels twin pangs in his hearts at the wave of apple and ginger, of sunflowers and whimsy that assaults his senses. There is a sinuous yellow innocence of vanilla, light yet gelatinous. From the amber bottle, he smells a reviving note of wormwood, a clean, refreshing hint of sage, a vintage musk, and a heavy base of unwavering devotion with just a dash of adventure. Combined, the two bottles smell of creeping ivy, damp stone, and the grey, foreboding dust of the grave.

The Doctor retrieves yet another container, its durability and resilience a contrast to its sophisticated vervain color. Graceful as a whisper, it holds a soft scent of rain soaked moonlight and the murmuring crackle of parchment and book pages. There are hints of floral fragrances – violets, daisies, pansies for thoughts, rosemary for remembrance – and there is something sharp like an antiseptic. It is redolent of strength though fleeting and ephemeral, with a haunting quality that lingers long after the Doctor returns the stopper.

He catches a glimpse of another bottle, one of graduated shades of grey. It is mysterious and overwhelming, welcoming and dangerous, calling forth a predatory fragrance of rich coffee and acrid gunpowder, of musky pheromones and a sweetly soured hint of alcohol, some dark bourbon perhaps. It is sparkling and bitter and eternal.

There is one bottle that is yellow, a pleasant yellow like a crop of jonquils, that occasionally slips through the cracks of the Doctor’s awareness, its warm, inviting color overlooked in the sadness of a Time Lord. Once opened, the wide, sturdy container smells industrious, of hard work and oil and polished metal and rusty nails. It smells of oozey leather, charred wood, and an array of earthy fragrances like an incense of stalwart bravery.

The last bottle he chooses is the bluest blue. Pinching it at its stopper and base, the Doctor holds it up to the single bulb above his head and he smiles at the cobalt ribbon of color running over his palm and snaking over the curve of his wrist.  He doesn’t need to open this bottle but he holds it just the same. He cradles the bottle in his cupped hands and thinks of its contents - the flirtatious blend of fig and orange blossom, the lush notes of exotic flowers, the lascivious breath of labdanum, the beguiling sweetness of quince. It is mellifluous and seductive, wanton and compelling. It is wholly complex and intriguing and frustrating and ends with an overpowering burst of ozone to be replaced by a void of failure and despair.

Remnants of his companions are littered throughout the TARDIS. One of Rose’s jackets clothes a mannequin in the wardrobe along with several of Donna’s hats while a button from Jack’s greatcoat has become a part of the console. Martha’s stethoscope is tucked into the emergency medical kit and her mobile phone still rattles around in the cavernous depths of the Doctor’s pockets, along with Amy’s reading glasses. An old laptop of Mickey’s, long since disassembled, has been used to repair bits and bobs of the madman’s box, its parts soldered and soniced into the workings of various contraptions. Now somewhat deflated, a battered football of Rory’s rolls about the tangled mess of hallways like an errant pinball, garnering an untold number of points on some strange, incomprehensible scoring system.

Unable to bear the thought of parting with a single object, the Doctor retains everything left behind by his former travelers. He keeps these things for sentimental reasons, as reminders of their presence and meaning in the immeasurable eons of his life. Long after his companions have departed and become phantoms to his memories, ghosts who wander the endless TARDIS corridors, he holds onto these seemingly insignificant items just to have some tiny scrap of tangible evidence, a little proof that they were indeed here.

The Doctor preserves these artifacts as keepsakes of those he has loved and lost, but after an indeterminable amount of time their ownership seems to change, to pass over from those who left them behind and become possessions of the Doctor. The football, once Rory’s, now entertains the Doctor while Clara swims laps in the pool. The mobile, formerly used to stay in contact with Martha, has most recently been used to order takeaway from an anti-grav restaurant on Beijing Twelve. Slowly, the history of the original owners begins to fade from the objects as they become custody of the Doctor.

This is why the Doctor has his place of memories, the room full of recollections, so that something of his companions remains untainted by him. Stored inside the rows of colored glass bottles, the truth of them will remain pure and unaltered. All he has to do is remove the stopper, close his eyes, and remember, remember all his bright, shining companions exactly as they were.

He returns the blue bottle back to its place and stands in the spotlight, hands stuffed into trouser pockets, eyes down at the floor. He takes one step to the side and lays his fingertips on the gold burnished doorknob then pauses in the shadow, lifting his eyes to let his gaze roam over the eclectic rainbow collection. With an indescribable fragrance in his nose and a wealth of emotions thumping in his hearts, the Doctor smiles. He turns the knob, steps over the threshold, and pulls the door closed. His eyes travel from the steel floor upward over the blue wooden rectangle and he turns to leave.

The Doctor takes a few steps then slows. Four steps. Five, six, and then he spins on his heels. The door is gone, replaced by a dead end of metal. But it’s no matter. The Doctor knows that when the time comes, the door will once again appear, and he will find his room of memories.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Doctor Who_ and _The Night Circus_ belong to their respective owners.


End file.
